Inappropriate Behavior: Possum Huntin'

This is one of several posts I had hoped to write during my mourning time in Auckland, but never got around to for obvious emotional reasons. But I don't want to lose it, because these are memories I really want to get DOWN on "paper" before I lose them. As I've mentioned before, I've written blogs on events from my days in Bangkok that I TOTALLY forgot about. That scares me, but makes me grateful that I took the time to record them. So, here we go...

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Possums abound in New Zealand, to the tune of 70 million, in fact (the human population is about 4.5 million). Legally, they're considered a pest, and most people who live in this country and own a gun take great pleasure in shooting them. There are several reasons for this. Like any mammal in this country, the possum was introduced, not native, and so, without any natural predators, has spread across these two islands like the Swine Flu. They eat your gardens, your trees (good luck getting a single fruit from a fruit tree), and damage and eventually kill a lot of native plants and trees. We have a few fruit trees on our property, peach and plum, and I got 2 plums and no peaches last year - the possums had gnawed on them all, and only partially, which is somehow way more frustrating. And they drive my dog batshit crazy.

Even a local school will occasionally hold a possum hunt as a fundraiser.

When you tell a local about possums around your house, like, "Hey, I think I heard a possum last night,..." the first response you always get is, "Did you shoot it?"

The first time I heard one, I was in the bathroom, and I heard the familiar sound of tires on gravel outside the house. I stayed still to make sure someone was actually visiting us (a rare occurrence) so late at night. One small worry about living in the middle of nowhere, is you have a small bit of unease, as if someone could drive up your hidden driveway and slaughter you to death and no one would ever know and your dog and cats would feast on your dead carcass to survive. Or even if someone did get an emergency call, it'd take them over an hour to get there, so we're totally dead anyway.

Or maybe that's just me.

Anyway, the possums,...right. So, I continued brushing my teeth or whatever, and I heard the gravel sound again. And then it stopped. Perplexed, I opened the door and peered out. Nothing. At some point I figured out I was hearing a possum instead of a car. Me armed with a searchlight with the power of the Sun, and Beau with a rifle, we found it perched on top of a tree. Well, we smelled it before we saw it. For a cute fuzzy little thing, they stink like a dead Ton-Ton.

And with a bang that shattered the still of the night and made my own heart freeze for a few beats, the possum was dead. We called up our neighbor, Paula.

"What do you do with a possum?"

- "You kill it."

"No, it's already dead."

- "Great!"

They're actually pretty cute, unlike their haggard-looking American cousins. They're more teddy-bear like with soft fur that is made into expensive socks and mittens. Well, teddy bears with evil red eyes. Oh yeah, and they carry and spread Tuberculosis too! Awesome!

I'm building them up as these bad guys cause well, we shot them. A few of them. Okay, by "we" I mean that One-Shot Beau shot them. My job was to hunt them down. And as much as I hate hunting, and as awkward as I still feel about the whole thing, a part of me, honestly, also liked it. Okay, I said it. Now I feel like a jerk and not the great animal lover I claim to be.

Anyway, it was late at night, and one of those nights with no moon, so when I stepped outside it was total blackness. I could hear the ocean, as usual, but I couldn't see anything. I made a couple of ginger steps down from the deck when suddenly I heard a bunch of thrashing and running about. That sent me back into the house pretty damn quick. Until I realized, of course, that there's really nothing in New Zealand that could attack and hurt me, duh. Well, non-human anyway. I realized I was probably hearing possums. I looked at the clock -- it was midnight.

Tiptoeing into the bedroom, I leaned over Beau.

"Um, Beau? I know you're sleeping..."
- "Whuh!?"
"Well, there's a possum out there, and if you want to stay in bed..."
- "Huh?"
"Possums, outside, in the darkness...But I totally get it if you don't want to..."
- "No, I'm up."

A few minutes later we were dressed and ready. Me once again with my power light and Beau with his shotgun. Or rifle, or whatever. I flipped the switch and began scanning the trees. It was like the searchlight from a helicopter. Seconds later, the light caught a flash of neon red. Yikes. That's how you find them -- their eyes glow a diabolical red, unlike any animal I've ever seen. I guess that makes shooting them easier, if you imagine they've the devil in 'em.

One shot-Beau did it again. It was almost like a magic trick. There was the mind-jarring shot and a half second later the soft *thump* as the body hit the ground. We checked to make sure it was dead (yup, real dead), and grabbing it by the tail, Beau tossed it into the back of his truck. We continued on. There were more. *BAM* *BAM* Two shots, two more dead, two more tossed into the truck. I was relieved he was such a good shot; I think if one were still alive I wouldn't be able to take it. My searchlight fixated on the last one - spotted a good distance off in a tall tree.

"Is it too far?" I asked.
- "Hrmmm..." said Beau.

He raised his gun and shot. There was a great cacophony of breaking twigs and branches as the possum exited the world, downward. We gazed down where it was -- an impossible-to-reach place without some climbing rope and crampons. Hmmm.

Back at the truck, we stared at the bodies.

"How many do you have to skin to make money on them?" I asked.
- "They told me it takes about 14."
"14? That's a lot. How much money do you get for 14"
- "They said about $90."
"That doesn't seem like a lot."
- "So, get after it."
"What?"
- "Skinning them."
"Fuck no!"

I found out later there is some kind of hand machine you drop the dead possum in, turn a crank, and it somehow de-skins them as you wind it like a hand organ. Still.

The weird thing about this, besides some small residual guilt about killing ANYTHING, I don't feel totally bad about killing possums. I still don't believe in hunting for a sport, and am RABIDLY against trophy hunting, but it's good to see the "other side" of the issue, not that there are m(any) animal rights activists crowing for the NZ possum.

Still.

Personal Update - November 2009

As all 2 of you who read my blog know, Beau and I separated at the beginning of June, so about six months ago. We never really stopped talking, and neither one of us were happy with the way things turned out. I won't go into all the gory details, and I doubt much people would care. But just to make sure the progression of this blog make some sense, things are coming back together....slowly...which includes us.

We're in therapy, which is intense and interesting and sometimes hard as hell (what happened to the fun kind of therapy where you get to blab your guts out and told how unfair the world was to you?). The therapist is sympathetic and thorough, yet she doesn't let us get away with anything, which I think is great. I think she's pretty awesome, and besides, how many of them allow you to bring your dog so it can have a playdate with the therapist's dog? It's not always easy to find out some of the stuff you do is really fucked up and needs to change, and that goes for BOTH Beau and I, but I'm pretty proud how both of us are facing it and making a sincere effort.

So, we talk every night on Skype, and nearly every weekend one of us drives to see the other (5 hour journey) or we meet halfway in between where the therapist is and spend the day there. Beau's going to be working at his school in the bush for quite some time yet, and my current job ends either at the end of December or January. There are a few options we're discussing like my moving back to the bush (and Beau...and Tonks and Fern), my staying here and getting a permanent job, or my moving to Tauranga, the city halfway between us, and getting a job there (since we'd like to actually live there permanently someday - the bush is not a long-term option), etc. There are LOTS of variables influencing our decisions, some which we can't force, which makes me crazy, because I hate not knowing the projection of my life, at least in the short-term. And the pro's and con's seem to be evened out no matter what we do. Argh!

In other news, it looks like our permanent residency status will come through in a matter of days or weeks (depending on fast they cash our "migrant levy" check). That's fantastic news for a number of reasons, one big one being that someone will actually be interested in hiring me for a real job instead of trolling for low-paying temp jobs. It also means cheaper and better health care, MUCH cheaper schooling (if I want to go back for teaching), the ability to buy a car/home/expensive furniture or appliances if need be, and a general sense of peace knowing you don't have to apply and pay for work permits every few months. I'm really excited about that. I want to do something big and celebratory for it. In New Zealand, that only means getting completely shit-faced drunk. I don't mind that part, but I need some food and entertainment thrown in too.

:)

Knitwit

On my very long list of "Things I really wanna learn how to do before I die" is all the basic clothes-making activities: knitting, crocheting, sewing, and quilting. My beloved great-grandmother taught me a small amount of crochet, but all I can do today is make a very long braid...erm, jump rope!

Knitting and quilting are up there, though, because I already have an idea of EXACTLY what I want to make a quilt out of, and because I'd love the idea of making scarves and sweaters and some day a blanket from knitting. So, when Beau and I were perusing the craft not-so-superstore Michael's recently, (so I could buy lollipop molds), we saw they had many different classes, and they were cheap! The beginning knitting class was a mere $5 for two hours. When I mentioned I'd like to take that, Beau said, "I'll take that with you."

I nearly had a stroke right there in the aisle.

I've been trying to get him to take more MANLY courses with me - boot camp fitness, truffle making, ceramics, tango (okay, they're not THAT manly), and though he's expressed a mild interest, the reality is that I got the infamous Beau-Don't-Budge act. Beau reminds me a lot of the Thais. He won't exactly say "no" to your face, but if he doesn't want to do it, it takes an earthquake and tidal wave to move him. He considers that "controlling his own life." I consider it "impossible."

So, when he OFFERED to take a class with me, and it was KNITTING...well, it was a wonderful, if albeit, heart-stopping moment. We signed up, then promptly proceeded to the back wall where Michael's disappointingly-limited array of yarns and needles were displayed. Using my handy Knitting for Dummies mini-book (basically a long pamphlet), we chose size 8 needles (metal for me, bamboo for him) and one skein of yarn each, a nice wool blend. Grey for me, speckled blue for him. We thought we'd start off trying to make a scarf or something.

At home, a couple days before the lesson, we propped open the Knitting for Dummies mini-book and tried to do some stuff ourselves. It quickly became clear that Beau was the more adept knitter. It took him about 2 minutes to describe a slipknot to me (really). We theorized all that knot tying with fly fishing and raising horses had made it familiar to him, since in my opinion, all knitting is is making interlacing knots over and over again. Still, I wasn't catching on lightning fast or anything.

I don't know what it is, but there are certain kinds of things that my brain has a really difficult time grasping - certain kinds of instructions and tasks. I have to hear them over and over, and go almost in slow motion. For instance, though I would LOVE to play music, I have tried to learn music three different times and never gotten very far. I know HOW to read it, I mean, I GET it, but I just can't seem to READ it on the page easily and end up counting lines over and over again. This is why when I played Indonesian gamelan, I was TOTALLY in a state of joy, since we learned songs by numbers which corresponded to your instrument, and it's easy to bang metal bars with a large hammer when each one has a number. Look, even Dubya can do it!

AN-Y-WAY, on a cold Thursday night, I arrived at Michael's, needles and skeins in hand. Beau was coming from Wally World, and since I got there early, I texted him that I was there, and sat in my car reading the second Golden Compass novel. With just a couple minutes before 6pm, I entered the store and went to the classroom in back. Right before entering, I called Beau, who still hadn't left Wally World *mutter* and would be a bit late. But he soon arrived and we sat down at a long table in a small, cluttered, obnoxiously-lit room. Opposite us was a diminutive teenager with bright blue hair, knitting away at Mach 3. Our teacher.

We were the only two in the class, and naturally with a blue-haired teenager, things are a bit laid-back. She taught us the very basics, and then basically sat back continuing to knit. Again, Beau caught on fast, and I...didn't. After several embarrassing missteps, I got started, and the three of us were just knitting away with simple garter stitches. Every once in awhile I'd hold my piece up to the high schooler and like a small child, bleat out, "Help!" She'd grab the wool, eye it carefully while muttering, "What...did...you...do...here?" and then would proceed to unravel here and there, hand it back to me, and chirp, "There you go!" That was repeated several times over the night.

So, since basically all it was was the three of us sitting there knitting a basic scarf of 28 stitches wide, this gave the teeny bopper a chance to talk. And boy, was she chatty. Still, I liked her, and after a little more than an hour slowly discovered she was a major gamer/nerd/D&D, etc. kind of gal with a gaggle of geeky guy friends. Beau remained annoyingly silent throughout, so I did my social duty and plied the girl with questions to keep her mouth moving. Otherwise, it would have been just a little bit awkward. But she was only too happy to educate us on her ENTIRE life, so I listened and smiled and commented occasionally. After about an hour and a half, it was clear that we "got it" and not much more would be taught. So, we basically let her go, got one more skein of yarn each for our nubile scarves, along with our 10% discount, and went on our way.

Overall, the lesson was...fine. It did get us started, and I've been ravenously knitting the world's most ratty scarf since then, but I was also a bit disappointed. I was kind of hoping for a good foundation -- all those vocabulary words like "cast on" and "purling" and stuff. I was hoping to learn a few more things. But obviously, this is my fault as well. I should have opened my big pie hole and asked her to do exactly that. I guess I was just so thrilled to be actually KNITTING so quickly, that I didn't push it. Besides, it was just the first lesson.

So, my trashy, Eliza Doolittle scarf continues to grow. It's full of holes and misshapen. In fact, by some way that I cannot fathom, I mentioned to slowly....widen... the scarf. Dear Lazuli showed me how to quickly correct this mistake, but as you can see, the current scarf looks like a giant, striped penis. Or, a penis wearing a really warm sweater.

When I showed it to a friend at work today, he said it looked like some kind of neat old artifact that you could hang on the wall, like a Thai textile or something. *sigh*

Guess it's time for lesson #2. Maybe with a different instructor.

Anger, Disgust, Towel Thrown In

I've had it with Missoula. Totally. Had it. There are not NEARLY enough redeeming qualities to justify the Bizarro World we've been living in for nearly a year now. The arrogance. The completely incredulous behavior. The highs have been scarce, and the lows have been just ridiculous. Come June, with luck (ha!), we'll get the fuck out of here. I'm so angry right now I can hardly breathe.

As previously mentioned, Beau has been subbing for local high schools, one in particular who seemed to take a real liking to him. He was chummy with the Science staff, who constantly requested him personally. When a half-time teaching job became available at the sudden departure of a Biology teacher, the Science staff was quick to shepherd Beau in to take it over temporarily and rallied for him to apply and take it permanently. Half-time isn't ideal, but hell, we were thrilled to finally get our foot in the door! FINALLY!

Of course, he would have to interview for it, and the first month would be considered "temping" before it actually became a salary job (erm, okay, whatever). He began temping the very next day. A few weeks later, they had him interview. All seemed well. Throughout this time, Beau was inundated with compliments. Apparently, the previous teacher had had a LOT of trouble with her students, and Beau's fluid classroom management had made such a remarkable change, that other teachers were commenting happily, and even stated they saw an improvement in their OWN classrooms with the same students. Good signs!

Then, after time had gone on and nothing was heard, an administration person made a comment to Beau that "it's down to the two of you - they're just doing background checks." The two of you?? Immediately, a red flag went up for both of us. Usually, a comment like that wouldn't phase me, but knowing how things here never turn out the way they NORMALLY would, I was somewhat nervous. Obviously they could (and should) interview other qualified candidates, but Beau pretty much thought he'd had it in the bag. How many kudos and how much staff support can you get and NOT think so?

Then the principal called him last night and asked him to come in early today. We knew what that meant, we just hoped it was a POSITIVE thing. It had to be, right?? Beau called me a few minutes before he was to start teaching class to tell me that the principal had informed him that they were going with the other candidate, and as of tomorrow, Beau was out on his ass. Just like that. The principal stated that Beau had "done nothing wrong" during his time teaching these classes, but the other teacher had "more of a Chemistry background" (Note: it's 3 classes of Biology). Then the principal said the job would have to go up again in the Fall, and that he should feel free to apply. *snort* Yeah, right.

I feel so devastated for Beau (who is taking it as stoically as he always does) and so fucking pissed off at what seems to be our Year of Utter Shit, our Year of No Luck, our Year of Menial Jobs and Professional Demoralization. I feel like we really haven't done anything wrong -- that we've been our usual selves -- get a job(s), work hard, do well -- and yet, all we've experienced is disappointment and backsliding. No one could ever accuse us of not trying hard and putting in an honest effort, again and again.

And it's not over yet -- I still have not heard back about MY job, which I should any day now, and which could ALSO go from me being a 9 month temp to unemployed. Ho ho ho. I'm to the point now where I just want to get some totally mindless, anonymous job, like doing 8 hours a day of pure data entry in a small cubicle where no one talks to me, no one looks at me, no one gives me any fucking shit, and I can just become a work zombie. No more ambition, no more desire to have a good middle management job where I can make decisions, and do some good. I haven't totally given up.....yet (a job I applied for in Missouri has currently gone from the HR person to the hiring manager - a very good sign), but I am so sick and tired of this place and it's stupefying outcomes. I'm ready to leave. Now.

Whaddya Say?

I've mentioned before how I love to poke fun at Beau for his very "rural" idiomatic expressions. And as someone who actually taught "American Idioms" to a classroom of foreign students, I'm fascinated with idioms -- their origin both location-wise and meaning-wise. And I just also find them really fun, though not all that easy to teach. The first one I ever taught my Thai students was "raining cats and dogs" and even though they picked the true meaning up quickly, they still loved to repeat it back to me every time even the hint of rain threatened, which was every day during the rainy season.

Anyway, the ones that I sometimes hear come out of Beau's (or his parents') mouths always make me laugh, because it's like they made them up on the spot. Here are some I've started to collect. Some are obvious, some not so much. Notice prevalent theme of "shit."

1. Bird dog it down.

2. Goofier than a pet coon.

3. Can't spell "cat" on three tries.
(I heard this one from a dean at the university)

4. Ornerier than cat shit
(A bizarre one, and a favorite of Beau's).

5. "Couple three" months ago
(translation: "2-3" months ago. I hear this one all the time in Missoula)

6. Went to shit and the hogs ate her.
(I still don't know what this means)

7. Don't that make you wanna shit in your hat 'til the band breaks?
(Ew).

8. As full of shit as a Christmas goose
(more shit)

9. Drier than a popcorn fart
(still with the shit!) "Nuh uh. That's a shitless fart! It's dry!" said Beau.

10. She was so drunk that she couldn't scratch her ass with a wildcat in each hand. A much more colorful take than the "couldn't find his ass with both hands" that I've heard.
("That also goes for anyone who is just mildly coordinated," said Beau).

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

And one my beloved great grandmother used to say when waving goodbye to us:
"Come good home!"

Um, okay! *wave*

Deep Conversations with Beau

Sometimes I don't know who's ADD is worse, Beau's or mine. I'm the one with the optional pills (that I take before a long meeting), but I like to think ADD suits me when multi-tasking at work. Beau, would prefer to be more focused, except of course, when I'm trying to talk to him.

Setting: Beau and J. are sitting in a booth at a favorite local restaurant that features 30 kinds of buffalo wings.

J: So, I've been having a lot of trouble with my stomach lately...

Beau: *staring intently at J's face*

J: And I've been trying to figure out what's going on, because it's really causing me a lot of pain...

Beau: *starts to slowly lean toward the right, still intently starting at J's face*

J: And you know, I don't want to take those stupid stomach pills because of how they make me... *watches Beau continue leaning to the right while now lowering his head and peering up at her* ...Uh, what are you doing?

Beau: Huh?

J: What are you staring at?

Beau: Your nose. *indicates nostrils*

J: *self-consciously touches her nostrils and feels nothing* What? No hairs are sticking out.

Beau: No, not really sticking out...

J: What? Do I have a big booger? I'm trying to talk about my stomach here...

Beau: No, the hairs...um...you ever seen a starfish? When you turn it over, you ever seen its mouth?

J: Are you saying my nostril hairs look like a starfish's mouth?

Beau: Yes. Just like how its mouth has these interconnecting, you know... like the hairs in your nose. *interlaces his fingers for a more dramatic effect*

J: Argh!

Men and Food - A Strange Relationship

I've said before that one satisfying thing about a man, if you're a woman, is that you can pretty much put anything in front of them, and they'll eat it. This makes cooking a bit less stressful. Yet, I am still repeatedly surprised to find Beau actually shoving things down his pie hole that he claims to despise. Despite the fact that I LOVE LOVE LOVE to eat, I'm actually kind of a picky eater, and can't imagine digesting something that didn't appetize me.

One annoying habit of mine, is that I will become fixated on a food and eat it continuously until I am so sick of it I can't eat it for a long time afterwards. No, we're not talking the "I only eat white food!" kind of thing, but if I get into, let's just say, Jelly Belly sour jellybeans, as I have for the past couple weeks, I will continue to eat them again and again. We just HAPPEN to have a Jelly Belly dispenser at Shop-n-Smile, and I have been getting small bags of the sour ones and snacking on them throughout the day (I don't want to even THINK about the calories). Beau, who is always sniffing out food like a bloodhound, immediately noticed the bag on the counter at home and began pawing it. "What's this? Jellybeans? Yuck, I hate jellybeans," he said, turning away. This is true, since after I made him an Easter basket, the only thing that didn't vaporize within 24 hours were the jellybeans, who sat lonely and untouched for quite some time in the Easter grass.

I was somewhat relieved, because if Beau finds a sweet he likes, it won't stick around for long. Many a time I have griped at him for knocking off pints of ice cream I had bought for myself (after already having bought him one as well). And just forget about having chocolate around him. Just last week he spastically wrestled a mangled mini-Mr. Goodbar from my grasp with a fervor that was frightening (he had been abstaining from chocolate for a week or two at the time).

I have had to devise very clever hiding places just so I can keep a candy bar in the house longer than 25 seconds. I once forgot that I had hidden a bag of Hershey's Kisses in the front pocket of my raincoat and found them months later. He still ate them.

Despite all this, yesterday we were hanging out in the living room and when I gave him a kiss, I was hit with the distinctive aroma of a Jellybelly. (Beau's not the only one who can act like a bloodhound). "Hey!" I said pulling away from his face, "I smell Jellybellies! I thought you hated jellybeans!"

"I do," he replied simply.

Doesn't seem much more to say.

Then this morning I woke up and saw the new box of Golden Grahams cereal was opened. This puzzled me since Beau had clearly stated that he was not a fan, AND also since we had two other boxes of cereal that he DID enjoy.

"Hey, didn't you tell me you hated Golden Grahams?"

"Yes"

"So, um, I noticed you had a bowl or two. Why?"

"I don't know."

Maybe another male can explain this to me, cause seriously, I'm stumped. It's not like we're stranded on a desert island and Beau's only hope for survival and sustenance are the many Jellybelly and Golden Graham trees surrounding him. What gives with consuming, needlessly in my opinion, food that doesn't interest you, or furthermore, food you claim to hate?

Happy Birthday, Beau!

Happy Birthday, my beautiful Beau! Today is a very special day for me, because it signifies when you were brought into this world, and how it has been a better place ever since. It truly is a celebration - a day to celebrate that you live and breathe and walk upon this earth. I am so thankful you are here, and I hope the upcoming year brings you the fulfillment and security that has eluded you of late.

And you really are the biggest goober, EVER. Like, to infinity!

Love you!

The Misadventures of J. and Beau - Day 1: Tubin'

This past weekend was our big "First Anniversary Celebration." We've both been pretty excited about it -- for like, forever. It was the first time since March we've both been off from all of our jobs for an entire weekend. It felt like a real goddamn vacation.

We had planned for awhile to go to what I like to call one of "Beau's Special Places." Besides growing up in Montana, Beau has been returning here for the past 25 years, and has camped, fished and boated in all sorts of various lakes, rivers, and streams. I was excited too. Though I am a city girl, I do love isolation (as long as it's not like, endless), and love to be near bodies of water. I was also eager to try fly fishing again. And of course, when you love someone, you're also eager to share in all their special memories and learn of their special places. So, Beau picked out the place -- Howard Lake -- and we formed a plan.

Late Thursday I was to go to Shop-n-Smile and pick up my paycheck - our weekend's entire cash flow. This was due to the fact that our previous paychecks paid for rent and the slew of bills all due around the first of the month. Early Friday morning, we would head out north, cash in hand, car packed up. I called up Shop-n-Smile just to confirm I could do this, and they said sure. But a few hours later, I got a call:

SnS: Hey J., um, because of the 4th of July, UPS won't be delivering our paychecks on time; you can't pick it up until Friday at noon.
J.: Uhhhh
SnS: Here...*reads apologetic letter from UPS*
J.: Fuck.

So, now what? We needed that money for the trip, but didn't want to waste one whole day of our three days, especially since we had quite a road trip before us. Milking the credit cards was not a good option since we were just getting those back on track. So, we got the idea instead to use Friday as tubing day! As the book says, in Missoula, a river runs through it, and as one friend told me, the route is "a beautiful 2 1/2 hour trip!" Nice!

Of course, this just happened to be the record-breaking heat day of all time for Montana. That Friday it would reach 107 degrees. Let me say that again, one hundred and seven degrees! IN FUCKING MONTANA! Due to this, we thought it best if we went later in the day. Right now, the sun doesn't go down until about 10pm, which gives you lots of time for day activities you may have to wrap up earlier in other locales. After we ran 10,000 errands in the oppressive heat, including purchasing two enormous inner tubes, sans air, we headed back home where we collapsed in crumpled, sweaty heaps. It wasn't long before I conked out, Beau first asking me when I wanted to wake up. "When do you want to go tubing?" I asked. "Whenever," was his answer. "Okay fine, wake me up at 5:30pm and we'll go."

This is something stupid about me that I can't seem to learn about living with Beau. 5:30pm to me, means waking up, shaking off sleep, re-pig-tailing my hair, and setting off immediately. 5:30pm to Beau means, continue drinking coffee, continue watching the news, washing those last few dishes, changing his clothes, putting on his shoes (this seems to take about 10-15 minutes), looking around for his car keys, sitting back down at the table to watch some more TV, changing the channel, washing his face, finding his wallet, etc.

Furthermore, I cannot ignore the role of Civ IV in this diabolical situation. Just like me when I'm home alone, Beau likes to have his current game of Civ IV on the computer. The difference between us is our abilities to GET UP and walk away from the game at a needed time. Beau finds this excruciatingly difficult. "Just let me finish off the Germans!" he'll exclaim. I try to be patient with this, because I know how unsettling it can be when there's just...that one....city left to capture. But with Beau, his video form of genocide can take many turns, until I'm contemplating finishing him off myself. And for those who have played Civ, you know that "just three more turns" can turn out to be thirty more minutes, easy.

In the meantime, I am going through an array of negative emotions from ansiness to aggravation to aggression, until I want to pound him over the head with a sledgehammer and drag his molasses-ass downstairs to the car.

I said that I TRY to be patient. I do not always succeed.

Let's just say that by the time our two cars were parked at the gas station and we were s.l.o.w.l.y filling up our ginormous tubes, it was 7:00pm. Beau says it was in part my fault. "You were crabby, so I let you fall back asleep." This is true, but I think he also fails to see how this is not really a good defense on his part.

By 7:30pm we had parked one car at the end point and were just parking another car at the start point, which was in a small parking lot in Lolo, a city 14 miles from Missoula (the one Brad Pitt's character kept gambling and getting the shit kicked out of him in the movie). The lot was just steps from the river, and within a ritzy neighborhood. I can imagine that the residents are just thrilled to have a bunch of screaming, drunken teenagers carousing through their streets every weekend, but by this time of the day, it was just us -- two old dorks.

We were somewhat alarmed to see a sign in the small parking lot announcing that the gate would be locked, (imprisoning our car), at 10:00pm. Doing quick math, with the 2 1/2 hour trip promised by my co-worker, and the 7:30pm start time, we were cutting it mighty close! "Well, I doubt whomever closes the gate is all THAT efficient. He probably won't be here at 10pm sharp! You'll see!" I said with great optimism. We sort of hemmed and hawed for a moment, but neither one wanting to waste the whole day, we set off.

Sure enough, the river was almost bare. There was one small group of people, but otherwise the river was open and inviting. We got in, and after that initial shock of cold faded away, we were off! Well, sort of. Tubing is rarely a swift exercise.

We floated along for awhile, enjoying the ride. There must have been a dozen different birds capering around, from tiny little swallows to a regal bald eagle (spotted by Beau, naturally). We even saw three enormous blue herons at different points, each one screeching in angry protest and taking flight at our presence.

Yet, as we floated along, I couldn't QUITE get to what is the ENTIRE point of tubing - simple relaxation. I would relax for awhile, we'd chat, we'd look at the scenery, which was beautiful, but in the back of my mind I would be thinking, "Can we get to the bridge before it gets dark? What if our car is locked up tonight? I guess we could get it in the morning. STILL."

I'm normally not such a worry wart, but floating down a shallow river in total darkness with all sorts of wild creatures nearby - Hey, there ARE bears! - is daunting. We continued to float - what else are ya gonna do? And it was beautiful, and it was enjoyable, and... we were comical. At different points when we seemed overtaken with doubt, we would slip through the center of the tube, land on the river bottom and commence intense aerobic activity, doing our best to run-walk-jog-trudge through the water. It felt a little foolish, but it's hard to be patient in a meandering river.

*slosh slosh slosh*

Then dusk hit. Besides the reminder of the oncoming night, it also welcomed an onslaught of insects. Particularly, mosquitoes. And if you know me, and my miserable history with the buggers in Thailand (i.e. daily coverings in red welts and my contracting dengue fever at one point), you know I am NOT a fan. If I could perform some kind of spell to instantly rid the world of this blight, I would. Perhaps in our fragile ecosystem they have a purpose - but I know not what it is - and for whatever reason, I seem to be a favorite of theirs. Many a time in Thailand I would be in a room full of people and once the mosquitoes hit, I would end up dotted with painful bites, while most others would remain untouched. It was maddening. The Thais often singsonged, "You have sweet blood, J., sweet blood!" Damn my sweet blood!

Anyway, that went on for about 20 minutes, and after several bites, blessedly lessened. But now the day was descending, and my fears ascending. Beau's too. By now, thankfully, we had started to see signs of civilization on the left side of the river, and some fancy homes on the right. We couldn't be THAT far, but how could you know? The bridge being our end point, it became a game of: "I bet the bridge is right around the next bend!" It was a game we would lose over and over again as it got darker and darker. Fearing being caught in the river too late, we dog paddled and waded to the bank, where we climbed up its super steepness, literally grabbing plants and pulling up, until we reached the top, where Beau with his assuredness, stomped through the scratchy grass, which thwhapped back to sting my bare legs. I didn't even care. I was in worry-mode now, which doesn't feel pain. Well, much pain.

We reached the railroad tracks which paralleled the highway (which the bridge was on). Somewhat of a good sign. Looking ahead in the dim light, we still could not make out the bridge. "How far can it be?" Beau wondered. With nothing else to do, Beau wearing his tube like a giant lei and me like a Miss America sash, and both of us dripping wet, we started off down the tracks. As we walked, both of us jammed our fingers into our tubes' valves in hopes of releasing air before having to put the sizeable things in our non-sizeable Honda. We walked quietly except for the continuous Sssssssssssssssss coming from our tubes, making our own Bizarro World version of Stand By Me. *squish ssssssssss squish ssssssssss*

At one point on the right was a large field with four beautiful horses: two greyish-white, one solid black, and a beautiful "buckskin" of light tan color and a darker mane. "They're going to shit themselves when they get a load of us," said Beau knowingly as we plodded and sssss'd by. They didn't quite have a case of the poopy pants, but they sure seemed surprised by our strange presence. And slowly, after a couple minutes of staring in disbelief, they began to follow us. The curiosity must have just been killing them. I found it touching. But I find just about everything touching. As a former horse breeder, Beau was indifferent. "They're still coming! They're so cute!" I'd exclaim in glee. "Mmhmm," Beau would reply.

And there in the darkness, we finally saw the bridge. Of course, now we had to cross the highway, another daunting task, especially encumbered with enormous inner tubes (the letting out of air had not been terribly successful). We did one of those dumb things where one person shouts, "GO GO GO NOW!" and the other person, because of their split second of hesitation, starts screaming, "NO NO NO! WAIT! DON'T GO!" Guess who was who. ;) We finally did make a mad-ass dash across though, and safe and sound, shuffled exhaustedly to the car. After smashing our tubes into the Honda's tiny trunk and back seat, we took off BACK toward Lolo in hopes of rescuing the Jesus car. And luckily, as I'd predicted (hoped), the gates were still open at 10:30pm when we arrived. So much for the 2 1/2 hour float.

And with that, Beau drove the Jesus car, I drove the Honda, and after picking up a delicious pizza, we drove home in relief.

A (Public) Love Letter to Beau

To my Banjo,

Congratulations on reaching the official one-year marriage mark with me! One year doesn't seem long in theory, but I haven't had many 'one years' like this one! This past year has been the most fun, tumultuous, challenging, loving, adventurous, and beautiful of my life. And trust me, I've had some doozies!

And don't think I am not aware what it was like for you. To travel abroad for the first time in your life, only to end up in a tiny fishing village of a completely different culture and language takes some real strength. And as usual, everyone adored you. As it should be. I don't pick no losers.

You are far and away the best friend I have ever had, and I have had some wonderful ones (Hi April!). I am closer to you than I have been to anyone, and I still want to be closer yet. I miss you when we are apart, even if it's just during the work day, and still want to be with you all the time. I get an enormous amount of delight in surprising you with gifts, experiencing new things with you, kissing your face, or one of my very favorites - just hearing you burst out laughing. It seems even when we're both completely depressed, we still seem to manage a few laughs every day.

Sometimes I marvel that despite the fact that our lives took such completely different paths, we are the same person down at the core of our souls. Our basic beliefs, what we love and value, what is fun, our sense of adventure and experimentation (don't get cheeky, folks), and how we see the world. I have learned in my old age that finding someone to match all of those things is très difficile. If I needed any more convincing, all I have to do is think of how a lifetime meat & potatoes man become such a complete lover of Thai food when only just introduced to it two years ago. The proof is in the curry. ;)

If we can have this "lovely" (to use one of our favorite Kiwi terms) of a relationship amid such chaos and doubtfulness, I am thrilled at the possibility of what we will have when we are stable, gainfully employed, and can spend more time doing very little. It will be nice for us to just be still, and I know it will happen...soon. Yet, if by some chance, our lives are turned upside-down again, both figuratively and geographically, and we end up back on another Down Under adventure, I'm with you, 100%. You can trust me to pack the Gabaldon books and the flashlight. And of course, some chocolate.

I love you.

J.
07/07/07

--------
Since in a drunken stupor you once accused me of casting a spell on you, and since there does seem to be some validity to that multi-generational curse that women in my family seem to strike upon their husbands, *cough cough* I thought it appropriate to dedicate the song, Circles Round the Moon to you, my beau, Banjo for our 1st Anniversary. It's not the typical, slow-moving, dance-at-your-wedding ballad, but a slightly bouncy, happy song about the magic of love sung by...Geri Halliwell. (Yeah, I know, but I adore this song). Besides, who doesn't love a song with a little banjo twang in the background? Happy Anniversary, honeybee.

Love, your good witch.

P.S. And I just really have all those candles 'cause they smell good. Really.

I put a spell on my heart for you,
Wishing on a little star for you
Kinda magic in everything we do...

Bureaucracy Will Some Day Kill Me (Or I Will Kill Beau)

I just can't shake that "two steps forward, one step back" feeling when it comes to bills and such, since although I have been dutifully paying some off, new ones, some expected, some a surprise, keep appearing. Beau and I are both terrible money managers, and though I think I've been improving nicely in the past decade, (even my credit score has made an impressive leap upward!), problems still ensue. I thought I was going to weep when I just got a letter from the IRS that I didn't report $1100 from 2005! Huh? I couldn't figure out what the hell it was about, until I called my old job and they informed me it was for "extra" data entry work I had done for them on the side - what I had always assumed was included in that "wages, salaries and tips" line. Wrong, dumbass! I had received my W-2 from from them back in 2006, but never the 1099 form for this "extra money," and therefore, never reported it. As a 1040EZ veteran, something like a 1099 is not familiar territory. Now, the thought of having to go through the bureaucratic nightmare of figuring this out, filling out paperwork, and possibly paying back taxes on that money NOW is just so depressing.

It doesn't help that my husband can be as stubborn as an ornery mule when pushed to do something, particularly something as unpleasant as dealing with bills. Recently, we were hit with an unusually high cellphone bill (it took a magnifying glass, and both of us perusing the 24 pages of ridiculousness for about a half hour to figure out what the fuck was going on with the thing), but the new pain in the ass was when our car insurance was just dramatically jacked up. This did not have to happen if my beloved Beau had *ahem* acted a tad faster, (notice due date for documents in 28-point Arial font on car insurance bill) but his excruciatingly slow, "I'll do it when I do it" attitude - in this instance getting his old insurance company to fax me the proper paperwork for our new one - has resulted in the rate hike. Though Beau was not the original cause, Montana was.

There's this demented law in Montana (surprise), that if you haven't had car insurance for the past three years, then your premiums get hiked up to the sky (almost DOUBLE what we were originally charged). I'm the main person on the policy, and for, well, 2 1/2 of the past three years I was in NYC, where, like, almost no one drives, including myself, hence, no car insurance. But Progressive didn't seem quite satisfied with that explanation, though true. I haven't even OWNED a car since 2000 when I sold it before moving to Thailand. Then I briefly moved in with Beau in Missouri, where he put me on his insurance, then shortly thereafter we were in NZ, where we also had insurance (but we'll be dammed if we can find proof of that now). So, Progressive is demanding proof from him for the past three years. So, after -weeks- of my being annoying-nag-of-the-universe, and his passive resistance, he FINALLY called his old insurance people, who were nasty, and in turn, reluctant to oblige him. When they finally faxed us "proof of insurance," it was utterly useless, showing only the last few months of his coverage (he'd already left the country for most of it) and how he had NOT paid his policy. They actually used marker and several exclamation points to emphasize their indignation at the top of the fax.

This is not entirely correct. What happened is that he put me on his policy, then left for NZ about six weeks before me. Left behind, I went in person to the insurance office, informed them that I would like to cancel the policy when it ran out in September anyway. My not being Beau, they refused. "I'm his wife and on the policy," I said. They couldn't give two shits. "He's out of the country and cannot come in and cancel," I said. They were unsympathetic. Finally, they gave me a single sheet of paper, informed me that when I got to NZ he should sign it, and fax it back.

Well, let's just say that Beau is claiming I never ever gave him this form *splutter cough* and so therefore, it never happened *choke* and he never sent it. *fume* Well folks, before I kill my lovely husband, let me -confidently- claim that not only do I remember handing him the form, but I remember subsequently nagging him repeatedly to "get it faxed ASAP." I have a faint recollection of the insurance office not being TOO concerned about the whole matter though, since the policy would naturally run out in September anyway, and though not "officially" cancelled, it would just...end. I couldn't back this up in court though.

Anyway, he called them again on Friday, informing them that the past three YEARS, not months, was what was needed. They seemed pretty pissed off at this inconvenience and said they "would try" to get something faxed to me but it might take awhile (maybe it's something in the water in Missouri). Well, now it's Monday and the fax machine sits silent. Bastards.

Too bad Beau doesn't have any good life insurance policies....

Guest Blog by Beau: Skunk Backstory

Back when I was in my twenties, I lived in Kansas out in the country. We had a house that had a bit of a crawlspace under it. One day I was inside when I heard the dogs starting to make all this racket. Naturally, I went to check it out. The dogs were barking up a storm at something in the crawlspace, so I took a peek under, and sure enough, there's a skunk sitting in there. So, after getting the dogs back, I went and got my 22-250. Crawling under the crawlspace, I aimed, shot and killed the skunk. Needless to say, there were a few things I didn't consider...

- The concussion from the gun going off in that tight crawlspace area. With the *boom* of the gun, my ears rang and hurt like hell. It'd be like putting your head in 55 gallon drum and having someone beat on it with a sledgehammer.

- Killing a skunk does exactly what you were trying to prevent -- release its stink. Immediately upon its death, I was assaulted with the unbelievable, full-on stench of the skunk. It craps out this real thick yellow stuff; it's like baby poop. It's one of those most horrendous smells you ever smelt; it immediately makes your throat constrict, and at the same time you're gagging, your eyes are burning.

To make matters worse, after this was all over, I had to go back into the crawlspace and pull out the dead body and dispose of it.

So, I have my reasons....

("Even though we're on the third floor on an apartment building..." says J.)

Yes. Even though.

Pillow Talk

This morning, while deep within a lovely sleep, I am violently awakened by this:

"Damn, it's a skunk!"

*rapid WHOOOOOSH sound of window above our heads being slammed shut*

Groggy/Heart-attack victim J murmurs.: Um, Beau, it's going to get real hot in here real fast.

"But there's a skunk out there. It'll stink up the whole house."

Beau goes back to sleep.
-------------------------------
Is that like, a form of sleep-walking? Beau, must have subconsciously known of his utter dorkiness, for he got up early this morning and made cinnamon rolls. He somewhat remembers his little spaz attack, but claims it was probably an emission from ME that caused his psychotic outburst.

Boys are dumb.

Love Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry

Well, STEVE, since you thought my previous post was too girly, I have a question to pose for you manly man's man...err..men...out there. (And yes, yes, it all stereotypical, just live through it).

Why...how...are you men able to forgive/forget so easily?

I really do want to know.

Sometimes I find it admirable (and a relief), other times, simply maddening. Example, early this morning I had a minor tiff with Beau. He characterizes it as a miscommunication/misunderstanding. Of course, I think I understood him perfectly. *cough*

So, I go to work feeling pretty bad about the whole thing. It wasn't a blow-out or anything, but it did sort of leave me feeling a little gloomy. One of those times where you wish your job didn't have so much human interaction, so you could just kind of hide away for awhile. The feeling lasted for the next several hours, in a combination of pissed-off'ness and bummed-out'ness. By the time it was time for me to take a late break, around 11am, I wondered if I should call Beau. I wondered if I wanted to call Beau. I typically call him on my break as I'm getting a soda or walking around taking pictures of flowers (*pokes tongue out at Steve*), but I was still a little angry. The couple of hours that had passed had softened my anger a bit, and knowing I shouldn't slide over into Poutsville, I called. Beau answered.

*in booming, gregarious voice* Heyyy, there's my wife! Hi!

*pause* Hi.

And at that moment, I knew he was fine, the morning was over. It wasn't even to be considered anymore. Just like that. And I also knew, that he probably hadn't given it much thought after I walked out the door. Of course, I couldn't help bringing up that morning again where we did a fast and furious re-hash, then we moved on.

I've never found it super easy to just drop it, to shrug and move on (Beau is unbelievably good at the "whatever" shrug), though I'm no record-keeping grudge holder neither. I know it's not a virtue to hold on to annoyance, anger, sadness despite the fact that I think I'm loads better than I was when I was younger. But still! When I try to reflect on what is the cause, I usually go back to that feeling that people hurt each other, they do wrong to each other, and there just never seems to be any real retribution for that. No, I'm not talking about Rambo kick-ass retribution, but a sort of ...what am I looking for? Regret? A honest wish to "make it right?" And by staying angry, you are letting the person know that, "No, this wasn't a little thing, it did actually kinda hurt, and I wish you'd not dismiss it too easily."

But in all honesty, then there's the flip side -- when I am the big fat horse's butt, it's a nice luxury to have Beau let it roll off his shoulders and greet me the next time with a grin and a hello hug. Personally, I think part of it is also fear -- that if I DO let it go so easily, that it'll just happen again and again, and I'll not only be hurt, but feel like a fool (always a charming combo).

I know it's stereotypical to think men always get over things quickly and women hold it a bit longer, but I've seen it enough times to at least think of it as a general pattern. And if any of you women are more of the shrugging type, then I'd love to hear what you have to say.

And as for you Steve.... :P

The DMV - Drama of Motor Vehicles

Why is it that the DMV is a comical, annoying, dramatic place, no matter where you live? After being pulled over by a cop recently, I was informed that by law, I had to get a Montana license after I began working. So, I looked up the DMV on the internet and faced my first problem: there is only one office and they are only open 8am-5pm, my exact hours of work during the day. A co-worker said, "Did you know you can make an appointment with them? You can get it and out real fast." Sounds good! So, I called up and Crabby Cathy answered.

Me: Hi, I heard you can make appointments to come in and get your driver's license.
CC: Um, no, I don't know where you heard that. We don't do that.
Me: Okay, are you usually very busy at lunchtime?
CC: It's the lunch hour! We're going to be short-staffed!
Me: Oh, so you probably will be busy then.
CC: I don't know! It depends on the day! It's never the same.
Me: Um, okay, thank you.

Meanie.

Of course, this written dialogue isn't nearly as fun without the woman's voice, which gives you the full treat of her attitude and phone skills.

"What did you expect? It's the DMV!" said a co-worker. Yeah, duh. Still!

So, after doing a bit more research on the web, I found out what we needed to bring to prove identity, residency, and a new favorite: "proof of authorized presence." And luckily, one of my supervisors told me I should (could!) go at 8am the next morning instead of my lunch hour. Hooray! So, gathering all important documents of my and Beau's life, we take off in separate cars (we had to drop mine off at the shop afterwards, that's a fun story for later), and drive to the DMV.

By the gods above, the place was people-free! Astounding! So, we sat down and began to fill out our paperwork. And for the first time in my life, a DMV employee rounded the corner of the wall separating us, and said, "When you guys are ready, you can just come around over to us." Well, that's a new kind of service I'm not used to.

Then we looked up. A large sign on the wall said, "We only take cash or checks."

Now, what the HELL is that? We only take cash??? Who takes cash for anything nowadays besides a pack of gum? And checks? The ONLY time I ever write a check is for rent. But happily, Beau usually carries a checkbook around (he's a dinosaur). "Where's the checkbook?" I asked. "I don't have it," he said. "What??" Oh great. And to further our luck, I had left my ATM card at home in the back pocket of the pants I wore the other night. I had remembered our passports, birth certificates, apartment lease, utility bill, and social security cards, but I had forgotten my frickin ATM card. Wonderful.

So, Beau decides it's best to go home, get the checkbook, get my ATM card, and come back. I know this will be a wait, so I ask the woman if I can go ahead and do all the stuff now and just pay when he returns. She fixes me with an intense stare and says, "Are you sure he'll return?"

"Um, yeah, if he wants to stay married," I said.

She smiled, shrugged, and continued my paperwork. I was a bit concerned about the eye test, since my right eye has not been so great lately. I got that AMAZING Lasik surgery back in Bangkok about five years ago, but even though I had my right eye re-done, it never made it to 20-20, and in recent years has seemed to get slightly worse. I still don't wear contacts and think I'm fine *bumps into door* but was wondering if the obligatory eye test would jeopordize the license. Well, even though I had some difficulty seeing the last line of letters ("Is that a two?"), Crabby Cathy said, "That's great!" So, oh well!

For the second time, the lady looked at me and said, "Are you sure he's coming back, are you?" This was such a perplexing question. I mean, what did she think Beau was going to do? After she asked me a third time, she said, "You never know. My ex-husband went out for a loaf of bread and milk and he never came back."

My mouth dropped open a little bit and I said, "Um, seriously?"

"Yes," she said and continued on with her typing. I had no idea how to even react to a statement like that so just said, "Wow," and then remained silent while "Everybody's Got a Hungry Heart" played through my mind.

FINALLY, after what seemed forever, Beau showed up, hooray! I took one look at the dog-eared checkbook he pulled out and grimaced. "Beau," I said, "That's our checkbook from Missouri, not Montana." His face froze. I instantly fantasized about slugging him in the stomach.

"But, but," he protested, "You put this on top of our checks, right on top of all the other Montana ones. I thought it was for this bank!" Though this is entirely true, I am not letting him get away with not using his EYES. "Nuh uh, no way are you blaming me for this!" I said, thinking about slugging him another time.

So, getting my ATM card back from him, I ran to the car and took off for the nearest bank, which thankfully wasn't too far. I was in a hurry since, again, being a *puke* hourly employee means every minute does count, and I was burning them away. I efficiently took out $60 and started driving back, mentally patting myself on the back since I'd be returning in less than five minutes. Then, I realized something. Our licenses were FORTY dollars each, not TWENTY. I hadn't taken out enough cash, AND, I'd had to pay that "not your bank, ha ha" fee once already.

FUCK.

So, I quickly u-turned and returned to the teller, where I took out another $40 (just in case), and headed back. So the whole thing took less than 10 minutes, but STILL. I seem to have caught Beau's goober disease. I got back, paid for both of us, and waited while we received....our temporary driver's licenses. That's right, apparently Montana has not yet mastered the technology to instantly print out a plastic card with your photo on it. Instead we were given a somewhat large (about twice the size of a real license) piece of paper with our black and white picture on it, like it had been printed on someone's old dot matrix. "You'll get your real license in about 14 days," they informed us.

!!

Well, okay then. Let's hope I don't NEED a license in the next two weeks. Like when I get pulled over by a cop again.
---------------------------

Oh my gosh, I almost forgot this part. As I was sitting there, one of the Crabby Cathy's turned to the other and said, "Hey, what's that stupid thing we have to go to tomorrow....anger management training?"

I almost peed my pants.

"Noooo," drawled the other one, "'Emotional Intelligence,' whatever that is."

"It's like an IQ test, but for your emotions," I said, "They use it to help see your way of thinking and your approaches to things, like at work."

"Huh," said the woman.

You Know It's True Love When...

...your husband watches the BBC mini-series Pride & Prejudice with you. (Some begging was required).

That's a 6+ hour mini-series folks. A PERIOD piece, a COSTUME drama. A movie of witty, yet antiquated dialogue. Men in stuffy shirts, women in somewhat shapeless dresses. No guns, no car chases, not much cleavage. Just some crusty aristocratic scandals to whip it up. And your wife is slobbering over "Mr. Darcy" (Colin *pant* Firth) throughout.

He loves me!

P.S. If any of you women have seen this film, you know EXACTLY which scene this "look" is from. *SWOO*

Psycho Kitty - Qu'est-ce que c'est? Part II

HAPPY SPRING!!!

----------------------

Sabina's zaniness intensifies. It's Beau's fault; he's making her evil, and she's loving it.

Beau and I have very different views on pets. Being a country boy, and spending a large chunk of his life breeding and working with horses, to him, they're utilitarian. Horses in the pasture, cats in the barn, dogs running around scaring potential bad guys or other varmints. Pets are animals.

I love having pets! As a city girl, they were companions who we kept inside (for the most part) and loved and stroked and were happy to share our bed with. They were gentle creatures, family members of a sort.

I've always treated Sabina with kidgloves. I stroke her and scratch her and carry her around like a doll. She sleeps up against me at night, and gazes out the window by day. She's my baby kitty. So, when Beau started messing with Bina, pushing her around, stepping on her (in jest), picking her up and jostling her around like a washing machine, just basically being pretty rough with her, I was alarmed.

"Hey careful! You'll make her mean!" I'm always afraid of cats going mean. I remember two cats from my childhood that "went bad." Not their fault. They both had been abused. I'll never forget the day when I was 13, arriving at a neighbor's house to babysit their son, to walk into the living room and find him swinging his new kitten around the room, helicopter-style, by a long string tied round its neck. No blaming that cat for hating people.

So, when Beau tosses Bina around, smooshes her with his foot, and being who she is, reacts rather dramatically with protest mews of great volume, and claws and teeth bared, I get nervous. It takes a bit of pushing to get her to respond, because I have taught her that to bite Mommy is a VERY BAD IDEA, so it was some time until she would go into immediate attack mode at the obnoxious probing of Beau. No need for probing anymore. I always know when he's messing with her, because a great whiny howl will just rise up out of nowhere, a sound I'm just not used to coming out of this cat. I used to get mad at Beau, thinking he was always instigating things. He protested. "She's a cat! She loves it! She starts it, really!"

"Oh sure, she starts it. What are you, five?"

"She does! You have to watch!"

Sure enough, Beau and Bina have developed a sort of sick game between them. He sits down at the computer to email or play Civ IV, and Bina will nonchalantly walk up to him and slowly lay down across his foot. There she waits. As soon as he moves a single toe --- ATTACK! What makes it so funny, is that while she is attacking him, she cries out in her "mews of protest" voice, as if she's the one being assaulted. I didn't even believe Beau, but have now seen her do this on a daily basis. Sabina the Psycho Kitty now lives to bite Beau's feet. And there is no holding back, teeth and claws dig in until I start hearing Beau howl himself. And the more he tries to pull his foot away, the more aggressively she attacks. He must remain perfectly motionless to prevent a confrontation. Of course, she doesn't dare do this to me; I would drop kick her across the room, baby kitty or no. With me she is still a gentle, soft cuddler. With Beau, she is all tiger. Well, that is, unless they're taking a nap on the air bed together.

"Now she's finally acting like a cat!" Beau proclaims in smug satisfaction.

A crazy, schizophrenic cat.

On the bright side, her lick-herself-til-she's-bald disorder has lessened, though not disappeared. Maybe getting out her frustrations on Beau's feet is a sort of therapy.

Lord help this family.

Cruel Cruel Missoula - Part I

We’re surrounded by lumber and dead bodies.

Beau and I have an apartment which sits in a sort of bowl surrounded by large hills and mountains, with I-90 up above us, two pieces of a cemetery on two sides of us, and various lumber yards and mills on the other sides. On a good day, you can walk outside and smell the pine wood being processed. And unfortunately, now when I smell that lumber, I just get pissed off, as you’ll soon discover…

Anyway, though Beau and I are happy to be in Missoula, we have been facing a harsh, HARSH realty since we got here – there are NO FUCKING JOBS! Here we are: him a certified teacher, now with savvy international experience, and me with my master’s degree and fairly impressive resume in the educational and non-profit fields. And yet, we are drinking from the dregs of what this “big” city has to offer.

The truth is, Missoula is only a big city to Montanans. To anyone you talk to who has come from out of state (which is a good many people), it’s a pretty small place. I find it to be a strange, somewhat cool, somewhat unappealing combination of small, hardcore industrial town and growing, quirky university town.

Since we moved here six weeks ago, Beau has only been able to secure seven substitute teaching jobs (one that doesn’t come up ‘til early March). This is some scary shit for us, struggling to pay for rent, credit card bills, and the dreaded student loans.

It doesn’t stop there. At this moment, I am registered with FOUR, count ‘em, uno, dos, tres, QUATRO temp agencies. How depressing is that! Temp agencies are always such an catch-22. You need them to get you some quick and dirty work when you come to a new city, but then you are tied to them like an indentured servant if you do get a good job. They provide you with weekly wages, but since your employer is paying them several dollars an hour on TOP of what they pay you, you get less money than you would if you were hired from them directly.

And sometimes, the whole thing can just be humiliating…

One of my first temp jobs was a clerical one at a lumber yard of sorts. More like a processing plant that receives wooden boards and then cuts them to order. Naturally, this wasn’t my dream job, but I needed work bad, and it seemed okay. I got there the first day and was greeted by a man with an ear-to-ear smile and a laid back attitude. At lunch, I told Beau he reminded me of Mr. Rogers. The woman who had given her two weeks notice, “Jill,” was not there to train me, which made it somewhat awkward, but Mr. Rogers did his best to train me to do a few things. He was actually a bit freaked out, since the office seemed to be going through a time of chaos. There was the woman who I was replacing, and the other woman in the office was moving into another position, and had just started training her replacement (whom they were not sure would stick around since the woman got the job by being demoted from another department). Mr. Rogers was obviously uneasy about the transitions.

Nevertheless, he began to train me. There were actually some duties I had never done before, but it wasn’t rocket science, and I picked it up fine. I continued working hard all day, and the woman I was to replace finally showed up (she had had some problems at home), and I sat with her for the rest of the day filling out paperwork and such. People there seemed nice, and I thought the job would do for awhile.

Jill and I chatted during the day and were astounded to find out we both came from the same city in Arizona. She told me how she was quitting to start school as a Speech Therapist, which I thought was very cool and told her so. I told her how Beau and I had been having such a tough time finding work and how I was happy to working there. I opened up to her a lot. I liked her and we really seemed to bond.

At the end of the day, Mr. Rogers came up to the both of us and solemnly asked Jill if he could speak to her alone for a bit and for me to wait. My heart stopped. The only thing I could think of was that Mr. Rogers would tell her I was doing such a good job that she didn’t have to fulfill her two weeks notice. He had been telling me all day how I’d been picking up the job quickly and competently. I felt sorry for her, since that probably would be an awkward conversation, but would probably release her as well.

I could see them in the other room, since there was a large window stretching across the wall. After about five minutes of my standing there, Mr. Rogers got up from the table, left the room, and came over to me, his face slightly twisted. Jill remained in the other room, motionless, her back to me. Suddenly, I had an ominous feeling.

Once again I got his broad smile, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Do you have your timesheet from the temp agency?” Aw hell, now I KNEW this was trouble. After a moment’s shocked hesitation, I told him no, since I thought I’d be working for awhile and he wouldn’t need to sign my timesheet until the end of the week.

And so then began his schpiel, and that’s all it was, a big schpiel of horseshit. He went on and on about how he knew Jill had been having second thoughts of quitting, and so that’s why he had wanted to take her aside and talk to her about it and see what she really wanted to do. And yes, it seems she DID want to stay (so much for wanting to be a speech therapist), and you know what that means, I was out on my ass. After ONE day! Mr. Rogers blabbed on, saying how I had done such a great job, and he kept crowing, “But J., you are at the TOP of the list, the TOP of the list!” as he explained that the office was still in flux and maybe just MAYBE I could be called back *wink nudge* to replace the recently-demoted woman if she chose to quit.

He had to be fucking kidding me.

I have had plenty of jobs in my life, and have always strongly believed in working hard and doing a good job. And I have never been fired. At that moment, I felt like I had just been fired for the first time.

I nodded, turned, and left, where Beau was waiting in the parking lot in the car. “Go, just go!” I said, and poor confused him put the car in reverse and drove off to our home, just on the other side of the cemetery.

I spent the next several hours cussing and cursing the name of Mr. Rogers and his whole big stupid lumber yard. Even though I knew it wasn’t my fault, I felt humiliated. The worst part was, I would have to RETURN there the next day so he could sign my timesheet. There was no way I was going to walk away without being paid for the day.

And what was also so depressing, was that once again, I was back at square one – unemployed with no prospects. It just killed me.

The next day I got up, showered and styled myself into a state of professional hotness. Wearing my sharp black suit and high-heeled boots, I drove over to the lumber yard, and with timesheet in hand, I marched in. I immediately zeroed in on Mr. Rogers and headed straight for him like a heat-seeking missile. The other woman smiled sweetly and greeted me and I did the same. Jill barely whispered a “Hi” and studied her desk intently. Mr. Rogers, seeing me, boomed out an over-dramatic “HI J!” that shook the walls and just pissed me off further. I tried to give him a polite smile, but it felt more like a grimace, as I handed over my timesheet like I was handing him a summons. He quickly signed it, mumbling pleasantries, to which I didn’t reply. I snatched the timesheet back, turned, and walked out with as much dignity as I could pull off. Really, the whole thing just made me feel blech inside. I got back in the car and drove off; at least it was over and I would never have to see these people again.

But damn it, sometimes I still SMELL them.